


Cosmic Legends

by Enfilade



Series: And If We're Lost [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: ADHD, Anxiety, Ghost Stories, M/M, Making Out, Misfire being an idiot, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fulcrum settles into the strange little crew he's found himself part of.  Unfortunately, everyone else's favourite pastime isn't Fulcrum's idea of fun.  And getting a hab suite of his own seems to make things worse, not better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Worst Decepticons

**Author's Note:**

> New office, new fic. Think "urban legends" on a galactic scale. Pop on Lennie Gallant's "Tales of the Phantom Ship" and enjoy.

**Chapter the First**

**In Which the Worst Decepticons Prove Themselves to Be the Best Decepticons**

* 

Two weeks ago, Fulcrum wouldn’t have believed he’d end up where he was now, in a newly furnished workshop aboard a spaceship bearing the improbable name of _Weak Anthropic Principle_.

Scratch that. Two weeks ago, Fulcrum wasn’t doing much of anything. He’d been passed out, left for dead in the wreckage of the battle for Clemency.

Two weeks ago in his memories, he’d been absolutely convinced he’d die before sunset the next day. He’d stayed up all night, unwilling to sleep away his last hours of life, but unable to find anything better to do with himself than cower in his bunk and pray to every deity he’d ever heard of – and also a blanket prayer to those he hadn’t – to, on the off chance they existed, have mercy on his miserable spark.

Fulcrum wondered how he’d ever figure out which god now held the massive debt he owed.

…Not that his current life was perfect. The Scavengers wandered the universe with mostly empty fuel tanks, mostly barren credit accounts, a ship crammed to the gills with junk and a death sentence from the DJD looming over their heads. It stood to reason that the most cowardly Decepticon of all time would find himself keeping company with the Decepticon’s worst officer, worst soldier, worst pilot, and worst medic. And the Dynobot? That was just the universe—or that debt-holding god—showing its warped sense of humour.

And yet.

And yet, all things considered, Fulcrum’s glass was as much full as it was empty.

Take this workshop, for instance. Two weeks ago, real time, this lab was merely one more room on the W.A.P. filled floor to ceiling with the Scavengers’ hoarded trash. Fulcrum had worked hard sifting through the mountain of junk and fixing those items he was capable of repairing. On the last planet they’d stopped on, he’d managed to trade the repaired objects for fuel and supplies, earning him not only a full fuel tank and happy associates but Krok’s goodwill as well. He’d finally started to believe that he was part of a team, not just the next victim-in-waiting of a pack of cannibalistic foragers.

Fulcrum had also sorted out the items he’d never be able to make use of…all the empty fuel-cell wrappers and corrupted data sticks and other garbage…and convinced Krok to let him dump it. It hadn’t taken much convincing when Crankcase took his side – the more weight they could lose, the better the ship would fly. Fulcrum had cleaned out an entire room, and as a reward, was allowed to keep the room for his own. 

After almost two weeks of bunking with Misfire, he of the perpetually sticky floor and relentless insistence on eating in the berth, leaving crumbs everywhere… Finally, Fulcrum’s own space! He’d set up this combination of science lab and private manufacturing bay, where he could keep working on his projects. Some of them he’d sell to help the group; others…well, they’d really come across some fascinating stuff in their travels, and Fulcrum couldn’t wait to tinker with it. He suddenly had infinite time and infinite freedom, and what better way to spend them than exploring the mysteries and wonder of the universe around him in the safety of his own workshop?

The current moon they’d stopped on had yielded a fascinating haul of salvage. Fulcrum wasn’t sure what the others were up to, but Krok had dismissed them and Fulcrum, for one, could not wait to crack the data drive he held in his hands. If the signage on the abandoned outpost they’d scavenged had been correct, this place had once been an Autobot outpost. Maybe there was something interesting on the drive…or, heck, Fulcrum would be happy with video games and pin-up pictures. The point was he didn’t _know_ what he had, but he was going to get to live long enough to _find out_.

Fulcrum had just finished hooking up the drive to his jury-rigged computing device when a loud noise echoed through the room from the direction of his door. Fulcrum jumped. The door emitted one last bang before slamming open, allowing a purple foot to cross the threshold.

“Misfire!” Fulcrum snapped. “Stop kicking my door!”

“Hey, loser,” Misfire said conversationally, inviting himself in, oblivious to the fact that Fulcrum might be busy, or wanting privacy, or concentrating on something. “You coming?”

Fulcrum blinked. Sometimes listening to Misfire was like reading a book with half the pages missing. _Coming where_? he thought, but since it was news to him that _anyone_ might be going _anywhere_ , he settled for saying, simply, “What?”

“We’re all waiting for you,” Misfire said, as though Fulcrum hadn’t spoken.

Fulcrum sighed. It sometimes took a few tries to get through to the purple warrior. “ _Who_ is waiting for me _where_ to do _what_?”

Misfire blinked. “See for yourself,” he said, pointing out the porthole of Fulcrum’s workshop, apparently not noticing that Fulcrum had peeled off a centimetre-thick layer of grime from the titaniplex window just the day before.

Fulcrum looked, and a flare of light caught his eye—a brilliance that was a fire. Four shapes that were Krok, Crankcase, Spinister and Grimlock in creature mode huddled around the flame. The abandoned shell of the Autobot outpost hovered in the background, its walls illuminated by the firelight. Fulcrum looked, and he saw warriors having a party to celebrate their victory.

That had nothing to do with him.

Oh, Fulcrum knew a few techs who tried to catch the eye of warriors, who liked to live vicariously through their more martial comrades, or who got off on a proximity to danger. Fulcrum just wasn’t one of them. He didn’t have the armour of a warrior, and a blow that was just horsing around to a tank or close-air-support jet could be dangerous, even deadly, to a technician. It was far safer to stay in his workshop where he belonged and let the battle-mechs have their more risky fun.

“You have fun, Misfire,” Fulcrum said, preparing to turn on his computer.

“No,” Misfire said, grabbing Fulcrum’s arm before he could flip the switch and beginning to haul the mech bodily out of the room, “we can’t start without you.”

“Wait, what? Me?”

“Are you deaf? Maybe Spinister should look at that.”

“I’m not deaf,” Fulcrum protested. “You just aren’t making any sense!”

“We are having a victory party,” Misfire said, slowly and clearly, “and _you_ are holding it up because you’re in here doing nothing particularly urgent while _we_ are all waiting, which is super rude of you by the way, but you’re lucky, I got your back, I told Krok I could get you out and he said to hurry before Grimlock got angry and I think we’ll be just in time!”

Great. Angry Grimlock. Just where Fulcrum wanted to be… Now he didn’t know whether to run, hoping to get there before the Dynobot lost his temper, or hide and hope Grimlock wouldn’t smell him in whatever wreckage he left behind from his rampage…

But Fulcrum had the others to think about. And Misfire was terribly persistent when he put his mind to something.

Fulcrum went. He let Misfire pull him out of the W.A.P. and back onto the surface of the moon, where the others waited around their fire. “Look, are you sure I’m invited?” Fulcrum said. “That looks like a warrior party to me and I’m a lowly techie, not…”

“You’re a K-class, stupid,” Misfire retorted. “You’re the bad-ass-est.”

“Is that even a word?”

Misfire didn’t seem to care if it was a word. As they walked closer, Fulcrum could hear Grimlock insisting, “Tell me Grimlock story!”

“I will,” Krok replied, his voice soothing, “but we have to wait for Fulcrum.”

“Hurry, Fulcrum!” The Dynobot’s voice echoed across the moon’s barren plain.

Fulcrum sighed…and then he looked again. Suddenly, he saw something different. 

Krok and Misfire might be warriors, but Crankcase was a pilot, and Spinister a medic. The Decepticon movement had always trumpeted Megatron’s ideal of equality for all Cybertronians, and yet it had wasted no time in erecting its own hierarchy to take the place of the order it rejected. Soldiers were at the top of the new social order, followed by combat support staff like pilots and logistics officers. Next came other kinds of support staff—the medics, weapons designers, and arms manufacturers—and under them the technicians, engineers and architects. Lower still were the civilian staff like fuel producers, factory workers, waste disposal bots…and miners. 

Two things struck Fulcrum in that instant: both that the Decepticon cause had betrayed itself as surely as the old Senate had betrayed the people; and that the Scavengers included an officer, a soldier, a pilot, a medic, a techie…and Grimlock, who wasn’t even a Decepticon at all.

Fulcrum tried to remind himself that Grimlock wasn’t one of them, not really; he was their ace in the hole, their ticket out of the DJD’s death sentence. When they got back to Cybertron, they’d had Grimlock over to Megatron, who’d revoke their names from the DJD’s infamous List; or to Optimus Prime, and the grateful Autobots would protect the Scavengers in return. Originally, Fulcrum had hoped Krok was wrong and the ‘Cons had won—everybody liked to be a winner—but as of late Fulcrum found himself almost kind of maybe hoping (in an extremely small and non-treasonous kind of way) that perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible if the Autobots had won, because that would make for a much better ending for Grimlock, wouldn’t it? From the way Spinister was currently scratching the Dynobot’s snout, Fulcrum suspected he wasn’t the only one who thought that way.

And all together, the Scavengers made…well, they made the society that Megatron had said he’d started the war to create, right? Mechanisms from all walks of life, of all different frame types and alt modes, warbuilds and civilian forms, officers and conscriptees, the smart and the stupid, the brave and the timid, the strong and the weak, united in one common goal for the good of all.

Maybe they weren’t the worst the Decepticon Army had to offer. Maybe they were the best.

With that thought in mind, Fulcrum took a seat near the fire on what had once been some sort of ornamental pillar, now fallen from its base and crumbling in the wind and rain. “Thanks for waiting for me,” he said.

Krok nodded.

“Bomb here, now tell me Grimlock story!” the Dynobot insisted.

“Okay,” Krok said as Crankcase tossed some more fuel on the fire. “This story is called _Massacre in the Lost Starship Graveyard_.”

Fulcrum got a sinking feeling in his fuel tank.

It was only exacerbated by Misfire plopping down on the pillar next to him, their thighs touching and their shoulders overlapping due to Misfire’s complete lack of understanding of the concept of personal space. He wrapped his arm around Fulcrum’s waist and whispered loudly—because Misfire’s whispers were the same volume as everyone else’s normal speaking voice—“Oooooo, Krok’s ghost stories are the _best_.”

“Ghost…stories?” Fulcrum said slowly, hoping his dismay didn’t show on his face.

But, judging by the fact that Crankcase was looking in his direction with the threat of a smile tugging at the left side of his mouth, Fulcrum suspected that it probably did.


	2. In Which the Coward's Mantle is Shared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Blessed Samhain and Happy Halloween.
> 
> I couldn't think of a better time of year for the Scavengers to tell ghost stories.

Chapter the Second

In Which the Coward’s Mantle is Shared

“What’s wrong?” Crankcase asked, with a horrific expression on his face that was trying and failing to be a smile. “Don’t you like ghost stories?”

“Er,” Fulcrum said, because from Spinister’s beatific expression and Misfire’s enthusiastic babbling and Grimlock’s warning growl at the prospect of another delay before Krok told him a story, Fulcrum could guess that the rest of the Scavengers were very big fans of ghost stories. 

Given that Fulcrum had only just recently realized that his current circle of associates were the best the Decepticon Empire had to offer, he really ought not do anything that would jeopardize his standing with the group. His _previous_ associates had done nothing when the Enforcers had marched him off to Styx for dereliction of duty— _him_ , a technician, who’d never been taught how to fight and had no weapons to fight _with_. His _current_ associates had stood up to the _fraggin’ DJD_ , which was essentially the same as telling off Lord Megatron on his behalf. They could’ve just gone ahead and torn out his fuel pump for fuel they’d sorely needed, but instead, they’d helped him. No, the last thing Fulcrum wanted to do was not belong to this group.

So Fulcrum plastered a big smile on his face. “Love them,” he said as convincingly as he could.

Crankcase looked skeptical.

Misfire, his arm curled around Fulcrum’s waist, practically vibrated with excitement. Grimlock and Spinister stared at Krok, enraptured, hanging on their leader’s every word. Fulcrum took a deep breath, reminded himself that no story could possibly be scarier than the DJD, and nodded to show that he was ready.

Krok raised his arms. “The medic in my old unit told me this story. He hadn’t treated the survivors. The Lost Starship Graveyard _leaves_ no survivors. But a mech who knew a mech who’d seen our old medic once received a transmission that made him a believer, and he passed along this tale.”

Fulcrum shivered in strut-melting panic as Krok described a small crew of six hapless Decepticons, sent out to salvage the wreck of a Worldsweeper that had unexpectedly gone missing, and had then been reported as a derelict drifting by the edge of the region of space known as the Lost Starship Graveyard. Fulcrum chewed on his fingertips while Krok described how the explorers split up into pairs and crept through the dark, claustrophobic corridors of the creepy empty vessel. Two unfortunate mechs entered a room and there… _there_ …they saw…

… _the Shimmer_.

“Really?” Fulcrum said, blinking.

“Augh!” Misfire yelped. 

Fulcrum looked around. Grimlock was concentrating intently on Krok, Spinister’s optics were wide and even Crankcase looked mildly alarmed.

“Oh, come on,” Fulcrum said. “You guys don’t seriously believe in the Shimmer, do you?”

Misfire put his nose against Fulcrum’s helmet and said, in a poor imitation of a whisper, “That means they’re going to die!”

“Hey, I’m K-Class, remember? I know what _going to die_ looks like and believe me, I haven’t seen the stupid Shimmer.”

“That’s because you’re not dead,” Spinister said. “If you’d been going to die, you’d have seen it on the way to the ground.”

That was so stupid it almost made sense, and Fulcrum sat there, optics flickering, trying to figure out what the hell to say to something like that. Meanwhile, Krok continued.

The first two Decepticons blundered into the blast furnace segment of the ship’s star drive, which came online for no reason and incinerated them.

Fulcrum was about to protest that ships didn’t work like that—you couldn’t just _walk into_ the star drive. No ship in existence would run without at least some rudimentary safety precaution preventing it, not to mention shields against the radiation—but though his mouth worked, no words came out.

And the story proceeded.

The next two Decepticons also saw the Shimmer, this time while they stumbled through the corridors, and the next thing they knew, they found themselves in a room with half-formed protoforms suspended in vats of green liquids, and a bizarre organic construct of wood seated in a control chair…

That sounded kind of familiar to Fulcrum, and a moment later, he placed it. Worldsweeper? Wooden robot? Ceiling covered in brains? That wasn’t some derelict vessel in the Lost Starship Graveyard. That was the ship the Scavengers themselves had come across right before the DJD found them.

Fulcrum looked around the circle, but for some reason, he seemed to be the only mech aware of the parallels. Krok took bits of their real experience and wove them seamlessly into the structure of what Fulcrum was now certain was a folk legend, and if you were Misfire or Spinister or Crankcase, those little touches of familiarity made the story feel real to you, and helped you swallow the more fabulous aspects of the tale—like when the half-formed protoforms slithered out of their tanks and tore the two hapless Decepticons to pieces.

Grimlock snorted. Spinister shrieked. Misfire jumped onto Fulcrum’s lap. 

Fulcrum groaned.

The _last_ two Decepticons also saw the Shimmer, but this time they were prepared. They barricaded themselves in the communications room, and while one of them made a heroic last stand fighting off the protoforms, which were also deranged mutants and also possibly demons, or maybe ghosts, or perhaps demon ghosts—Krok wasn’t all that clear on this point—the other made a desperate Mayday call, which was allegedly picked up by the mech who knew a mech who knew Krok’s old medic. The story ended with the original narrator listening over his communicator as the last survivor of the salvage expedition was torn apart by the demon-ghost protoforms.

Misfire was actually trembling as Fulcrum shoved him off his lap. The purple Decepticon whimpered, and it was all an act—it had to be—but…but… 

Fulcrum put his arms around Misfire. Misfire sighed and leaned into the embrace. Fulcrum rolled his optics. If Misfire wanted to cuddle, why couldn’t he just say so?

Oh well. Fulcrum supposed there were worse things than getting into the spirit of this whole ghost story business.

Actually, this really wasn’t so bad, come to think of it. Krok launched into another story called _City of Fear_ , in which an evil Autobot scientist reanimated an army of zombies and used them to chase down and tear apart Decepticon citizens in the bombed-out ruins of Kalis. This story also featured a brave Decepticon platoon who discovered the scientist’s insane plan. They killed the wicked Autobot, but they also discovered the hard way that if one of their number got bitten by a zombie, that mech turned into a zombie. They wiped out the zombies, but at the cost of their own lives, and it was possible…even probable…that they missed at least one…

Fulcrum tried very hard not to laugh. The kind of zombies Krok described were mathematically impossible. If a zombie had to bite at least one mech a week to stay alive, and if anyone bitten by a zombie became a zombie, well, all of Cybertron would be zombies by now, if such things were real. 

Strangely enough, Fulcrum thought maybe he was starting to _like_ ghost stories. These ridiculous tales were an absolute riot. The stuff some mechs believed…

And, of course, it gave him a great excuse to paw Misfire a little and not feel as though he were doing something inappropriate in public. Spinister was cuddled right up to Grimlock now, and the big Dynobot had his tail curled protectively over Spinister’s waist. Crankcase wasn’t the snuggly sort, but even he was sitting with his back up against Grimlock’s other side. 

“This,” Krok said menacingly, “is the terrifying tale of Lord Straxus of Darkmount. Even as a disembodied head, he ruled over his territory with an iron fist…”

#

It was hours before the fire began to burn low, right about the time when Krok started running out of stories. The second-last tale sounded an awful lot like a rehash of The Dominator of Darkmount, except with the Tagan Heights as the location and Lord _Trannis_ as the disembodied head. The final story, entitled Queen of the Vampire Insecticons, was met with boos and jeers from Crankcase. Crankcase insisted that Krok had told that story the _last_ time, Misfire had pointed out that Fulcrum and Grimlock hadn’t heard it yet, and Crankcase retorted with, _fine, whatever, but you are_ not _sleeping in my room tonight, Misfire, you got that? I will seriously kill you if you try._

Krok began, and Fulcrum tried very hard to keep a straight face as an arachnoid Decepticon got bitten by vampires and teleported to an obscure moon where she reproduced with, and fed upon, a legion of Insecticons who were vampires and possibly also zombies, and where she still lay in wait, resurrecting the bodies she cannibalized, building up her ghost zombie vampire army. Fulcrum found it hard to take this silly premise seriously, but Misfire and even Grimlock seemed to. Fulcrum hid his inappropriate smiles by burying his face in Misfire’s neck when he just couldn’t hide his smirking any longer.

“I think that’s it,” Krok said at last, rubbing his hand over his mask. “I’m just about worn out.”

“What do you say?” Crankcase asked, poking the fire with a stick. “We all go back to the WAP, try to sleep, fail miserably, and end up hugging guns and sitting up on the bridge all night?”

“You no be scared,” Grimlock reassured. “Me Grimlock take care of any ghosts! Me see ghosts, me bash brains!”

Fulcrum just couldn’t resist asking, “Hey, if they’re ghosts, do they even have brains any more?”

“Uh oh,” Misfire said. “He’s right. They _wouldn’t_!”

Fulcrum suddenly found a shivering jet plastered against his torso, quivering dramatically. If Misfire wanted a hug, Fulcrum would’ve let him without the dramatics. 

“Me Grimlock no care. Me Grimlock bash anyway!”

“Whatever,” Crankcase said. “Dibs on the pilot’s seat.”

“You’re not going to your quarters?” Spinister asked Crankcase.

“Not gonna sleep anyway. Might as well get the best spot on the bridge. See you there.”

 _Really?_ Fulcrum watched Crankcase walk back to the ship, followed by Grimlock, with Spinister sticking very close to the Dynobot on the right and Krok, half asleep already, stumbling after him on the left. 

“Come _on_ ,” Misfire said, tugging on Fulcrum’s hand. “Hurry up or we’ll get left behind and the ghosts will eat us!”

“Ghosts don’t eat people.”

“They do if they’re ghost zombie vampires.”

Fulcrum couldn’t even begin to list what was wrong with that sentence. It was a lot easier to let Misfire tow him along in Grimlock’s wake.

“Brrr. That was _the most terrifying thing_ I have _ever heard_ in my _entire life_ ,” Misfire said, with great emphasis, as he grabbed Fulcrum’s arm and hugged it to his chest.

Fulcrum tugged his limb free. “Oh, it was _not_ ,” he said, tired of the jet’s melodramatics.

“Was too!” Misfire regarded him with optics round from (likely feigned) shock at Fulcrum’s skepticism.

“Misfire,” Fulcrum sighed, “you have heard the DJD _personally_ promise to kill you.”

Misfire blinked. “Oh yeah.”

Fulcrum sighed.

“Okay, then that is the _second_ most terrifying thing I have _ever heard_ in my _entire life_ ,” Misfire announced, hugging Fulcrum’s arm to his chest again. “A very _narrow_ second.”

Fulcrum rolled his optics as Misfire dragged him onto the WAP…and right past his workshop door. The K-class started to struggle, but Misfire just held on tighter and kept walking. Fulcrum shoved Misfire, who grabbed Fulcrum’s waist and leaned backwards until they both fell in a pile right outside the ladder leading up to the bridge. 

It sounded as though Crankcase, Grimlock, and Spinister were already up on the flight deck. The Dynobot was snoring. Loudly. Spinister was asking Crankcase whether it would be scarier to wake Grimlock up, or just fight any ghost zombie vampires they saw by themselves.

Fulcrum never heard Crankcase’s answer. He was too busy standing back up and informing Misfire that there was _no way_ he was sleeping on the bridge with a snoring Dynobot.

“Come _on_ ,” Misfire insisted. “It’s safer.”

“It’s _annoying_ , is what it is. There’s no _berths_ on the bridge, Spinister talks in his sleep and Grimlock’s snoring could wake the dead. Also, Crankcase said he’d kill you if you tried to sleep with him.”

“He said he’d kill me if I tried to sleep _in his room_ , which I won’t, and I’d rather be killed by Crankcase than by ghost zombie vampires anyway!”

“There’s no such thing as ghost zombie vampires!”

“Prove it,” Misfire said, folding his arms.

Fulcrum’s response was not particularly eloquent, but sometimes it was the only possible reply. Particularly when dealing with his fellow Scavengers. Fulcrum had been getting a lot of mileage lately out of a simple “ _What?!_ ” 

“Go on. You’re a scientist. Prove to me that ghost zombie vampires don’t exist and I’ll take it back and go sleep in my room.”

“I don’t… _science doesn’t work like that!_ ”

“Hah. You can’t prove it, can you?”

“You…you can’t prove a negative!”

“That means they _do_ exist, and they’re probably all right here waiting to eat us the second we fall asleep!”

“I’m done arguing with you. Let _go_ ,” Fulcrum said, extracting himself from Misfire’s clingy arms.

“Where are you going?” Misfire called after him. “My room is over _there._ ”

“And my room is right _here_ ,” Fulcrum replied, his patience at an end as he yanked the workshop door open.

“But…” Misfire stood there in the corridor, arms spread wide, face a portrait of stunned disbelief. “But you always sleep with _me_.”

“And now, I have my own room, all neat and tidy, with a berth I just set up in here today, and nobody sitting up playing noisy video games next to me all night, and nobody eating Data Chipz in bed and getting crumbs in the blankets and feeding the turborats, and nobody tossing and turning and kicking me in his sleep, and I can have the whole bunk to myself.” Even as he talked, Fulcrum stepped inside and began closing the door behind him. “And you won’t have to keep quiet and go hungry and lie still all night.” Not that Misfire had been all that good at any of those things, though he’d whined often enough about how hard it was to try.

“But Fulcrum!” Misfire wailed. “You’ll get eaten by ghost zombie vampires! Who might also be demons, you know!”

“I’ll take my chances.” Fulcrum slammed the door locks closed. “Good night!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits: the Lost Starship Graveyard is from Transformers: Victory;  
> Straxus' disembodied head and the City of Fear are from the Marvel UK comics;  
> Airachnid is from Transformers Prime;  
> Lord Trannis is from a UK text story;  
> and most of the rest is from IDW :)


	3. A Friend Will Fight Off Zombies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go - a fic that's been a year in the finishing. But now, as we all get excited for MTMTE 45, I figured it was time to get this finished up and posted, just in case 45/46 change how I write Scavengers from here on out. Enjoy!

Chapter the Third

**In Which A Friend Is Someone Who Will Fight Off Zombie Vampire Ghost Demons For You**

Fulcrum wasn’t sure how long he tinkered with the salvaged data drive he’d taken from the Autobot outpost, but it was long enough to fall into a sort of trance state, in which he no longer heard the background noise of the W.A.P. And by _background noise_ , he meant the low rumble of Grimlock’s snoring, the percussion of various items hitting the walls of the cockpit, and the occasional click of a rifle being dry-fired somewhere above. Krok had been smart enough to give Spinister an unloaded weapon. It was a shame, Fulcrum thought, that Krok couldn’t do anything about Crankcase’s propensity to yell and throw things.

But Fulcrum managed to shut out all those everyday noises. Cocooned in his hard-won private quarters, tinkering with all the equipment he’d manage to scrounge, asking questions and seeking out answers… Fulcrum realized that here, in this filthy old scow of a ship, surrounded by his fellow losers, he was happier than he’d ever been.

Except something was still missing.

What could it possibly be? What more could he ask for? Fulcrum filed that question away to answer later, because just then his monitor flickered and opened a new window. He’d done it! He’d managed to crack the encryption on the Autobot data!

It was _fascinating_. Fulcrum stroked his chin as lines of code filled the screen. It looked as though this were a forcefield program. It was more advanced than anything the Decepticons had given him for defence and protection back during his terraforming days.  
Fulcrum bit his lip as a disquieting thought occurred to him. Was this forcefield program really super-advanced, or did it just _seem_ cutting-edge to someone who’d been out of action as long as he had? Maybe this thing was actually obsolete, and that was why the Autobots had left it behind.

He pushed the thought out of his head. The program was _still_ more advanced than anything else the W.A.P. had by way of defensive measures, and that meant that it would worth having if he could just get it operational. 

He was pretty sure he had a forcefield projector in the lab somewhere. _Unless one of the others had come in here and taken it_ , he thought.

That was woefully common behaviour on this ship. His fellow Scavengers had no concept of either privacy or personal property; if you needed something, you found it and you took it, and it was yours until someone else needed it and took it away from you. 

Fulcrum didn’t think anyone had been in his new lab yet. Crankcase and Spinister had been curious at first, but they’d cleared off as soon as he’d asked them to help carry unsalvageable garbage out of the room. Krok had just looked in the door, given the project his blessing, and gone off about his business. And Misfire had done such a poor job of sorting out the valuables from the trash that Fulcrum had kicked him out and told him not to come back.

Still, now that it was tidy, the crew might return for another look, so Fulcrum decided the next thing he’d jury-rig would be a security system for the place.

Looking into his storage compartments, Fulcrum realized that the lab wasn’t actually as tidy as he’d thought. He’d dumped a lot of parts into bins without taking much time to sort them—particularly the parts he didn’t think he’d be using again soon. Like the forcefield generator. Where in the Pit had he put that?

Fulcrum dug through one bin, then another. No luck. He was about to start searching the third when he heard a strange sound in the hallway.

One thing about becoming familiar with the W.A.P.’s background noises over the past two weeks—the ship and its occupants made a lot of weird sounds, but Fulcrum knew right away that this sound was a whole different kind of strange. The unfamiliar kind.

And unfamiliar things had a bad habit of getting mechs killed. A shiver of fear ran down his spinal strut. Fulcrum didn’t believe in spirits or monsters, but hostile locals, raiding pirates, and the Decepticon Justice Division could get a mech killed just as dead, and in equally gruesome ways. So Fulcrum held very, very still, and tried to figure out whether a slow, rhythmic scraping sound accompanied by little choking moans was more likely to be made by an indigenous life form, the universe’s quietest pirates, or the DJD having a little fun psyching him out before striking.

Fulcrum shuddered. Chewed on his fingertips. Trembled all over.

And realized he was just as frightened of the things in his head as the rest of the crew with their ghost stories.

He scolded himself for his foolishness. The others were all up on the bridge watching out for monsters that didn’t even exist, and he was down here, imagining boogie mechs in the hall. There was no point in being scared until he saw something worth being afraid of. He was just going to have to open his door and find the source of the sound, which was probably something logical and harmless.

Still.

Fulcrum picked up a pistol he’d recently repaired and flicked off the safety. Weapon in hand, he crept over to the door. His knees knocked together, and his jaw wouldn’t keep chattering. He wondered if he screamed for Grimlock, would the Dynobot get down here from the bridge in time to save him? Would Grimlock even respond to his name? Or would Grimlock come roaring and stomping and biting the heads off of anything in his path—including Fulcrum? Would the others respond, or would they be too busy hiding from imaginary enemies to come rescue him from real ones?

Fulcrum wished, irrationally, that Misfire were here. Misfire might not be the best shot in the galaxy, but Fulcrum realized he would feel an awful lot better if Misfire was around.

Well, too late now. It was his own fault for telling Misfire to get lost. Now he was going to get killed by the DJD’s local field office of ninja pirates, and he’d never get the chance to tell Misfire that he really kind of liked his company, and…

_Deep breath._

_You’re just freaking yourself out again._

_You’ve got this, Fulcrum. You faced down Tarn, you can face down this thing, whatever it is._

_Here we go._

_Jump time._

Fulcrum cracked open his door and pressed his eye—and his gun—to the narrow gap. He couldn’t see much of anything except the opposite wall, the floor, and a tiny strip of quivering purple metal.

What the heck was bright purple and in the hallway?

Fulcrum could hear more clearly now, though, and what he heard was a sound like a maraca being shaken: clattering, chattering, rattling at the end of each scrape, and gasping inhalations in between the low moans. 

He wanted to keep his door mostly shut so he could quickly shut it all the way if the thing was something fatal, but he still couldn’t tell what was making that noise with so few visual cues. Knowing he knew better than to open the door wider, and knowing he was going to do it anyway, Fulcrum sighed and did a Scavenger-worthy thing.

He opened the door and stuck his head out.

The purple strip grew wider until it was no longer an extremely thin sliver of Misfire’s right arm but in fact all of Misfire, sitting on the floor, hugging a blaster to his chest, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Fulcrum stared.

Misfire looked back at him, optics wide with what looked very much like fear.

“What the…” Fulcrum spluttered, holstering his pistol before he could accidentally shoot his friend. “What in the _seven smelters of Mortilus_ are you _doing_?!” 

Misfire’s lower lip quivered. “Protecting you,” he choked out, “from the ghost zombie vampire demons.”

Fulcrum was aghast. He stood there, frozen, staring at Misfire. Ever since the ghost stories had started, Fulcrum had been operating on entirely the wrong conclusion.

_Misfire hadn’t been acting up for attention._

Misfire genuinely believed that those scary things were real, and dangerous, and probably somewhere around here, and he was truly frightened of them…

…And instead of looking after himself, he was looking after Fulcrum.

Misfire hugged his weapon tighter.

“Have you been there _all this time_?” Fulcrum demanded. “Since we came in from telling ghost stories?”

_Since I told you to get lost?_

Misfire nodded miserably.

Fulcrum didn’t know what to say. His mouth moved, but no words came out. He bit his lip and tried again. “Look, I’m not saying ghosts, zombies, vampire, or demons, alone _or_ in combination, are real, but…”

“They _are_ ,” Misfire moaned.

“Yeah, okay, I know _you_ think they are, and since you _do_ think they are, why in the _Pit_ are you _here_ , instead of up on the bridge with Grimlock and everybody else?”

Misfire looked at the ground. “’Cause I don’t want you to get eaten by zombie ghost vampire demons.”

For a few seconds the two Decepticons just stared at each other.

_Don’t ask._

Fulcrum knew better than to ask. But the more time he spent in the company of the Scavengers, the fewer good decisions he made.

He asked.

“What did you think you were going to be able to do against a…an undead menace?” Fulcrum demanded, hardly able to believe that he was using the term _undead menace_ in a serious question.

“Well, zombies die if you shoot them in the head, and vampires and demons at least don’t like being shot, and even if it was ghosts you’d at least hear me screaming when they tore me apart and it would give you a chance to run away.”

Fulcrum shivered. He had a terrible feeling he was on the verge of some momentous discovery that might be more than he wanted to deal with right now. But he was a scientist, and he inquired anyway. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I deserve it for _not_ believing in demon vampire zombie ghosts, and maybe _you_ should go somewhere where you feel safe?”

Misfire shook his head. “No _way_. I’m not leaving you here to get eaten.”

Fulcrum eyed him skeptically. “Look, I’m glad you didn’t take me apart back on Clemency, don’t get me wrong, but aren’t you guys all about looking out for yourselves?”

“Yeah. We look out for _ourselves_. And that means _you too_. And I don’t care if Spinister and Crankcase are too scared to come down here. I don’t…” Misfire stared at the floor, ashamed. “I don’t wanna go back to sleeping alone.”

Fulcrum glanced over his shoulder at the berth in the corner of his new lab and decided that he was not, now or ever, going to tell Misfire that he’d intended to recharge in his new quarters from tonight onward. That was going to be his little secret.

“Hey,” Fulcrum said with a crooked smile. “Bet you’re gonna like what I found on that Autobot data drive.”

Misfire clutched his weapon. “Will it keep ghosts out?”

“Actually, I think it will.”

Misfire glanced up sharply. “You messing with me, pinhead?”

“Hey, you’re the ghost expert. You tell me. You think a forcefield will keep ghosts out?”

“Probably. Oooh, and it’ll _definitely_ keep out vampires and zombies.” Misfire jumped to his feet, excited. “You really got a forcefield?”

“Yeah.” Fulcrum grinned. “There’s a program on the disk. Shouldn’t take me long to rig up that old projector we found.” 

“Dude. That thing has a cracked lens and half the wiring was stripped.”

“Not any more. I fixed it last week.” 

“Really?” Misfire asked.

“Yeah. I thought that was why it wouldn’t work, but it turned out the operating program had become corrupted. Well, now we’ve got a new program. A more powerful one. C’mon, you get in here and stand guard while I find the projector and get it set up.”

Misfire grinned. Bounced on his toes. And swaggered into the lab, saying, “Well gee, loser, I _guess_ I can keep your sorry aft safe from zombies for at least a _little_ while. You know. While you set up the forcefield.”

#

There were three smoking holes in the wall of Fulcrum’s lab before he succeeded in finding the projector. There were two more in the left arm of his couch before he got it working. Still, Fulcrum couldn’t find it in himself to feel too angry about the damage, not when Misfire was next to him, cracking stupid jokes, telling him how smart he was, just being himself. Fulcrum was relieved. Quiet, frightened Misfire upset him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

“Hey, loser,” Fulcrum said with a grin.

Misfire looked up from the sack of of spare parts he’d been pawing through. Even the prospect of being devoured by monsters couldn’t hold his attention for long. Fulcrum noticed that he had a half-eaten bag of Data Chipz in his left hand. His mouth was full of chips, and as he chewed, crumbs fell into the sack of parts.

Fulcrum was going to get turborats in his new, clean, tidy lab. He laughed. He’d rig up some traps tomorrow.

“What’s your problem?” Misfire mumbled through his full mouth.

Fulcrum pointed to his keyboard. “You wanna do the honours?”

“Really?” Misfire swallowed. “Frag yeah, I do!”

Misfire pushed the indicated button really hard, and with a hum and a pop, a golden bubble sprang into being all around them.

“It works!” Misfire squealed, hugging Fulcrum tight. “You really are a genius, you know that?”

Fulcrum used to think Misfire was mocking him when he said stuff like that. Now he wasn’t so sure. 

“We’ll totally be safe in here. What a relief.” Misfire nuzzled Fulcrum’s neck. “So, whaddaya wanna do for the rest of the night?”

Fulcrum had almost mustered up the courage to nuzzle him back when a thought occurred to him. “Hey, wait.”

“What?” Misfire drew his head back.

“You think we should ask the others if they want to come in our no-ghosts forcefield?”

Misfire frowned. “Nah. They got Grimlock to protect them.” Then he cuddled up to Fulcrum’s side, engine purring contentedly.

Fulcrum almost asked what a Dynobot was supposed to be able to do against an undead menace. He was a scientist, after all, and he was curious about Misfire’s logic. But in the nick of time, Fulcrum remembered that demons, vampires, zombies and ghosts, alone _or_ in combination, didn’t actually exist. The rest of the crew was in no real danger. 

So there was nothing wrong about Fulcrum keeping his mouth shut and curling up on the still smouldering couch with Misfire for the rest of the night.

Two weeks ago, Fulcrum would never have believed he’d end up where he was now. Four weeks ago, in his memories, the lead project manager of the B’lahr 39 terraforming initiative would’ve been appalled to think that his destiny was not, in fact, the career in upper management that he’d hoped for most of his life. Instead of a desk job back home on Cybertron, he’d ended up with four of the worst soldiers to ever wear the Decepticon insignia, and their brain-damaged Dynobot pet. 

And right now, he couldn’t be happier.

“Hey, loser,” Fulcrum said softly.

Misfire stirred. “Whaa?” he asked sleepily.

Fulcrum leaned closer to Misfire’s audio. “I just wanted you to know,” he murmured, “that nobody back in my old terraforming job would’ve fought off a lousy zombie for me, let alone a whole undead legion of ghost vampire demons.”

“Why not?” Misfire frowned. “What kind of pinheads did you work with?”

“The kind of jerks who aren’t worth one of the mech with me now.” Fulcrum smiled and lay his head on Misfire’s shoulder.

Misfire was silent for a long, long time. Fulcrum was just starting to get worried when he spoke at last. 

“Well, of course not,” Misfire said. “I’m the best the Decepticon Army has to offer.”

Maybe not by Megatron’s definition. Definitely not by Tarn’s definition. And absolutely not by any definition that had anything to do with marksmanship skills. But, Fulcrum thought, he had as much right to the purple badge as anyone else, and by _his_ definition, Misfire was right.


End file.
